


Poor Timing

by CommonNonsense



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have talked about having sex in their new relationship, but are too busy to actually get down to it. After a four-day case that leaves them both exhausted, Sherlock insists they do it now, despite John's weary protests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poor Timing

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the kink meme: "TL;DR: Sherlock and John attempt sex, but end up falling asleep."
> 
> Full prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120276831#t120276831
> 
> Also available in Chinese, thanks to Frieda: http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2848 (I believe you need an account to view it, but such is life.)

John is getting tired of the word “soon.”

It feels like the most common thing he says to Sherlock as of late, right after “no” and “quit stealing my laptop,” but this he hates saying as much as Sherlock hates hearing it. 

It's been a month since they crossed the line from friendship to a romantic relationship—though they more jumped and fell over the line in a heap on the other side, for all the grace with which they had gone about it. In spite of that, it's been a wonderful month, easily the best John has experienced since moving into their Baker Street flat. It's been an easy, domestic period, filled with plenty of shared kisses and comfortable nights together on the couch (of which there are surprisingly many; John had never pegged Sherlock to be one for cuddling). There's just one thing missing.

They've talked about having sex, but it seems that the entirety of London is conspiring to keep them away from it. For the first week, it was simply because John wasn't yet ready to make that journey through his sexuality (Sherlock complained every day and repeatedly argued _you've already kissed me repeatedly, what difference could_ this _possibly_ make) and because he's ninety-percent sure Sherlock's a virgin (but John won't ask). Then it was too many shifts at the surgery, interspersed with various cases that leave them worn out or simply without the extra time they need to properly enjoy themselves, because John refuses to have a five-minute rut on the sofa between a case and dinner and call that their first time. 

At some point, he smuggles in the necessary supplies past Mrs. Hudson, whom he suspects already knows about his and Sherlock's relationship, and stuffs them in his bedside drawer for whenever the opportunity arises. They go ignored for two more weeks.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, has been getting more and more impatient, and John honestly can't blame him. Sherlock has been going to extra lengths to get John to have sex with him whether it is opportune or not; it started with extra touching around the flat and has continued into wandering the flat in various states of undress. It's been incredibly tempting, and John has been just as eager as Sherlock has, but something always stops them. This is when he starts repeating it; soon, soon, _soon_.

Four days ago, they finally had what they thought would be an uninterrupted evening. John came home from the surgery tired but not exhausted, and Sherlock had pounced him as soon as he reached the top step. Before he knew it, he was backed against the wall in the front room, his jacket draped awkwardly over his shoulders as London's only consulting detective attacked his mouth with eager kisses. 

They were interrupted a few minutes later by a text from Lestrade, and Sherlock had almost tried to bound down the stairs in a dressing gown and no trousers.

Now, the case wrapped up at an ungodly hour of the morning, four days later, they take a cab back to the flat. John unabashedly rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder and lets his eyes close, drifting in and out of a doze. There has been far too much sprinting about London and not enough recovery; he can only think of getting home and crawling into bed, and he's not even sure he'll be able to change his clothes before he does. He knows Sherlock is exhausted, too. The man is leaning heavily against the car seat, head tipped back and eyes shut. 

So when John drifts back into full consciousness to long fingers tracing the inside of his thigh, he's surprised. 

“No,” he mumbles, opening his eyes halfway and pushing Sherlock's hand away. “Stop it. Not tonight. I'm too exhausted and so are you.”

Sherlock makes an annoyed noise and takes back his hand, only to place it on John's knee and leave it there for the remaining duration of the ride home. John figures that's the end of it and reluctantly sits up to stretch.

Once they arrive home, John pays the cabbie while Sherlock looks on impatiently. As the cab pulls away from the curb, John turns to go to the flat and is stopped immediately by Sherlock's mouth over his. The kiss is warm, chaste at first, and John is happy to twist the lapels of Sherlock's coat in his fingers and pull the taller man down to his level to kiss back. 

Too soon, Sherlock pulls away without any warning and turns to go up the stairs. John huffs and follows, but his disappointment is quickly overshadowed by the thought of a cozy bed and sleeping for ten hours, and he slogs up the steps after his excitable lover. No sense in getting worked up when he has already said no, after all. 

As soon as the door is closed behind him, John is pushed back against it. Sherlock seems to surround him completely as the man bends down, kissing him heatedly, coaxing John's lips apart and sliding his tongue against John's. He's careful, inquiring, but also insistent. John can't react quickly enough to catch the moan that rises in his throat—and damn it, he's half-hard already, even as the rest of his body objects.

He knows Sherlock notices this because he pulls back just enough to give a knowing smile. 

“I already said we shouldn't,” John says, his protest sounding weak to his own ears. It's further discredited as he slides his hands under Sherlock's coat, gripping the suit jacket underneath. 

“Because we're a bit _tired_?” The way Sherlock says it, voice husky yet completely flippant, both leaves John yearning for more and helps to cement his earlier decision. 

“No, Sherlock—no,” he repeats, pushing against Sherlock's chest. “No,” he says again, as though it'll convince himself and a certain part of his anatomy that never listened well to his brain. “I'm tired. We've been up for, what, twenty hours—you need to sleep, too, you look like you're going to pass out standing up because you never listened to me when I told you to—”

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. John stops trying to break free and looks up. The skin under Sherlock's eyes is purple with exhaustion, there's a definite droop to his eyelids that isn't simply “bedroom eyes,” and strands of hair have rebelled from their usual tight curls and are sticking out and fraying as they please. However, the expression on his face is so earnest, so wanting, that John's voice sticks when he tries to argue again. 

“If we wait, we will probably be interrupted again,” Sherlock continues, dipping his head and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of John's neck. His hand slides up and pushes away the collars of John's coat and shirt, exposing a sliver of skin that's warmed by Sherlock's breath as he speaks again. “Please, John.”

John bites back a groan. That is simply unfair, and he has half a mind to tell Sherlock so, because that voice and the breath caressing his skin both completely bypass his brain and aching body and go straight to his groin. 

“Fine,” he says between his teeth. “Yeah, fine—upstairs, then, I have everything up there.” It occurs to him they might not need everything, or even anything, depending on how far this goes, but it's better to be prepared. He drags Sherlock back down before he can change his mind, kissing the man forcefully before letting him go and leading the way upstairs. 

He's already regretting the decision as he takes the steps one at a time, legs groaning with exhaustion, but he forces himself to work past it, focusing only on Sherlock and managing to divest him of his coat and scarf en route. Surprisingly, it's Sherlock who stumbles first, toppling them both at the top of the landing, and they both have a laugh that's swallowed up by more kisses. 

Eventually, they find their way into John's bedroom. John shucks his jacket and pushes Sherlock down on the bed before collapsing beside him. The mattress was never the most comfortable thing in the world, but it feels so immensely good to have something soft under his aching muscles that he groans quietly. He's aware of Sherlock making a similar noise in his ear, and the bed shifts as Sherlock straddles John's hips. Sherlock grinds once before leaning over him, and John can't help gripping at the duvet as his eyes flutter shut—

—and when he opens them again, his shirt has been opened, he has no recollection of it being unbuttoned, and Sherlock is bending down for another warm kiss while simultaneously trying to work the shirt over his shoulders.

Christ, he knew he was too tired for this.

Figuring movement and not laying directly on the bed will keep him awake, John grips Sherlock's shoulders and flips him over, reversing their positions. Sherlock gasps in surprise but immediately sets back to the task of pulling off John's shirt. John sits up enough to let the garment be stripped from his arms and tossed unceremoniously to the floor, then fumbles with Sherlock's buttons. His fingers feel clumsier than usual—undoing buttons has never been quite so difficult. 

“What do you want?” he asks roughly, dipping his head to pepper kisses up Sherlock's pale neck. 

“ _Anything_ ,” Sherlock breathes, sliding his hands over John's bare torso. The word sounds both weary and desperate.

John nips at the dip behind Sherlock's ear, forcing a sharp intake of breath from the man below him. He finishes with the buttons and pulls Sherlock up to properly remove both shirt and suit jacket, then sits back and undoes Sherlock's belt and trousers. Sherlock is gritting his teeth at this point, waiting for the inevitable sensations, but instead John leans down and kisses him again, urging his mouth back open and languidly twining their tongues together, exploring, running along teeth and hard palate and lips. 

Even now, John is still sometimes surprised that he is allowed to do this, that he can touch and taste and take whatever he wants of Sherlock. It has been a month, yet it still blindsides him sometimes, that they have this. They have time—for once—and John wants this to last.

“John,” Sherlock sighs again, and John hums a response as Sherlock's hands slide down his body, nails scratching lightly against his back. One settles at John's hip and the other slides across his stomach and under the belt of his trousers. Elegant fingers close around his cock, and John groans and drops his head beside Sherlock's, resting his brow against the pillow—it almost feels as good as what Sherlock is doing. He closes his eyes and is immediately swept up by a wave of dizzying tiredness, and it takes all his willpower not to give in to it.

He takes a deep breath, swallowing back the moans he wants to make as Sherlock strokes agonizingly slowly. He slips a hand down to unzip his flies and properly push down his trousers and pants, but as he does, Sherlock's movements stop. John makes a frustrated noise and starts to sit up. 

“Sherlock?” he questions. He lifts his head and looks down at Sherlock. The man's eyes are closed, and his head is tipping to the side until his cheek rests on the pillow. 

“Sherlock,” John repeats. No response. 

Sherlock has fallen asleep with his hand in John's pants. 

John can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it. Then he breathes a “thank God,” and all but collapses, lying over Sherlock. He just barely has the presence of mind to pull Sherlock's hand away before settling down, draped over the detective as he forgets his arousal completely. Sherlock's body always did have a way of shutting down whether it was convenient or not; John wasn't sure if he was grateful or not now, but he doesn't have time to decide before he falls asleep as well.

Tomorrow, then, he thinks just before he drifts off, quickly lulled into sleep by the steady sounds of Sherlock's breathing and slow heartbeat. They will wake up, and John will convince Sherlock to eat a proper meal now that the case is done, and then he will hide Sherlock's phone and drag Sherlock back to bed and they will have all the time in the world.


End file.
